The Midnight Hour
by tiffanybane
Summary: Kyle deserved to be more than second best.


So, this literally came out of nowhere. Hahaha. (:

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. And the title came from Billy Idol's _Rebel Yell_.

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><p>"Yeah?" Tweek asked vaguely, although I didn't believe he had any idea of what I was talking about. Relationship problems didn't exist in his life—damn it, I needed to stop calling it that. <em>Friendship.<em> I had friendship problems, one-sided because Stan was oblivious, but they were there and they were awful.

Craig was sitting next to him, and I was rather positive that he had his hand on the back of Tweek's chair to rub their nonexistent issues in my face and down my throat in the hopes of suffocating me with it or something equally morbid. He was an asshole like that, and just because I was in a masochistic mood and wanted to make it worse by adding onto my list of negatives: he also disliked Stan and I very much. Enough to ridicule me by being cute with his boyfriend.

"I feel ya, bro," he consented sarcastically, nodding along to my stupid rant which I shouldn't have been spouting. The emotion in his eyes, vibrant blue eyes that reminded me of Stan, was cruel. Perhaps it was just their color that was similar, although sometimes my best friend liked to fuck with me just for the hell of it, and I guessed that was where the two tall, dark haired teens converged. I wanted to damn their twinesque appearances with some ancient curse hidden deep within the roots of my Jewish heritage, like maybe I could throw insults at him in Hebrew that would scar him with a permanently limp dick for eternity, but I didn't think one of those existed.

His blonde boy dropped what he was doing—merely refilling the led in his mechanical pencil—before abruptly whipping his head around to gawk at Craig. Tiny lines of led rolled to the floor, disappearing instantly. "We have relationship problems?" He cried, knocking his boyfriend's arm away as though, since now he was aware of their paranoia-fabricated 'problems', he had to act upon them. "Why didn't you tell me, dude?"

All I could think about was how even _Tweek_ called them relationship problems. I hadn't made it sound like my and Stan's issues were ones larger than friendship, had I? Feeling the uncontrollable urge to blush, I attempted to tell myself that moments ago I definitely had _not_ said, "And now he wont hang out with me because their relationship is going good. Wendy always ruins everything", because that was definitely jealous girlfriend lingo and I was _not_ a jealous girlfriend. Dear God, no.

Craig didn't stop the decline of his arm as it flopped against his side, now without a hold to leverage it. He didn't seem to care about its displacement or Tweek's attitude, staring serenely at the ceiling while tossing an M&M into his mouth. Chewing for a brief second, he allowed the blonde's temper to simmer for whatever reason, only to say, "Our relationship is great."

The simple sentence was monotonous and curt and seemed to be borderline meaningless, but an adjective like 'great' from Craig was equivalent to the highest form of flattery. Despite its aloof quality I found his endearment, unfortunately, very sweet. His blonde thought the same, because the tension coiling around him like a second aura dispersed and he blushed modestly. I wanted to hate how Craig smirked at the success of his mission, but again, the action was disgustingly charming and I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

Fluidly, the dark haired teen flicked an M&M high into the air. It fell and he watched it and it hit Tweek in the head and then it was gone like the sticks of led. "Good one," he commented. I figured he had meant for the blonde to catch it as a peace offering.

"Don't feed me M&Ms," Tweek muttered, turning around in his seat to give Craig the order directly. The blonde was given a raised brow while his boyfriend inserted a disc of chocolate into his mouth. "I'm upset with you. You scared me." They were so honest with each other, I realized. It made me want to get on the ground, curl into a ball, and die slowly.

The other didn't even miss a beat when he said, "This is why we've been working on weening you off being a pussy. You get pissy all the time." The noirette sunk further into his seat, slinking down until his head could rest against its plastic back with his long legs stretched out in front, but it wasn't due to his mood or misfortune, for he was still apathetic and still indifferent to the blonde's behavior. This guy was just a huge, unresponsive asshole. I wanted to know what it was specifically that Tweek had liked for so many years and how the giant, gaping blister of Craig's douche bag tendencies hadn't turned him into something undesirable. I was betting it was because of his dick. Supposedly the view was "just godly"—Kenny's words.

Plagued by embarrassment, the blonde turned back around in his seat. He began to fill up his pencil with a forced undertone, obviously bothered by the turn of the conversation. Part of me felt bad for technically being the reason for his discomfort since I had brought up the topic, but more than that, I was curious to see them work it out. The mystery behind Craig and Tweek's relationship was a constant wonder, not only by me, but of all our classmates. Everyone always saw them together, the way they cooperated and reacted to each other, and yet their relationship as a whole was utterly vacant.

Undeterred, the dark haired teen crossed his ankles like the business meeting he was attending was off to a boring start and he'd better get comfortable before anything too exciting happened. I felt a little weird just sitting there while their paradise was ruptured, but there was no way in hell I was leaving until a final result was attained. Maybe I'd learn something from them—_You don't need relationship advice, Kyle. You need a lesson on what to do when your best friend gets a girlfriend._ The same girlfriend that's been on and off since third grade and made redheaded Jewish boys jealous.

"I just thought I was doing really good with all of this stuff," Tweek finally grumbled, continuing to pack his pencil to the brim. A few of the thin pieces of led wouldn't fit and snapped.

_What did 'stuff' entail?_ I wondered, unsure if I was getting the distinct feeling that this wasn't the first conversation they've had about this or if I was just trying too hard to be Robert Downey Jr. as Sherlock Holmes.

"You are doing really good with all this stuff." When the blonde scoffed skeptically, Craig progressed with the same light air of passive disinterest. "You get mad over stupid things and you know it. You're twitchy, and you freak out, and you drool on me sometimes when you're sleeping, and you shower too much, and you always smell like fucking coffee—all the fucking time, dude." My lips parted. Honestly, I couldn't comprehend what Craig was getting at. Tweek looked about ready to bail and make a run for it. "And I like all of those things except for the first one, so stop worrying so much."

When the blonde's breath hitched, actions paused, hands trembling slightly, Craig's eyes narrowed speculatively, waiting patiently for something that only he was aware of. I thought that his taunt had been dirty but that the bit at the end had been sly and flirtatious. Never would I have thought that he'd have a characteristic like that in him. It was a pleasant surprise, and I wanted to ask how he romanced the blonde. The only thing I could picture was something along the lines of him saying, "Take your clothes off, get in my bed, we're fucking. Oh, and hurry up. My boners deflating as we speak." So maybe it was Tweek that romanced him instead.

At first I thought Craig foiled his own plan as the blonde remained silent and tense. His eyes relayed a different message, though. One of harnessed content. Observing him as he reined in his emotions caused me to briefly doubt just how well I actually knew this guy. How far did his emotions go when he wasn't keeping them in check? What had Tweek uncovered during those years he'd crushed on the dark haired teen while everyone else thought he was doing nothing but searching for another way to torture himself?

And then I saw it. For one split second instant, Tweek's lips flickered into a breathless smile, and although it was small, it meant much more in a different language. Possibly in Craig's language, because the noirette's physical presence suddenly seemed to beam. He got up out of his chair, bent over the petite blonde, and nestled his face up close to his boyfriend's. The cohesive two were cozying it up right in front of me, and I wished I had the guts to tell them to stop, but they were acting so unbearably sweet that I just couldn't manage to do so.

Turning his head, the dark haired teen kissed his boyfriend on the cheek. "You have absolutely nothing to worry about," he whispered, and then straightened and added, "I saw Clyde walk by earlier, so I'll see you later." Sauntering out of the empty classroom, he mused, "Probably going to rape him or something. He looked extra snazzy today," all the way to the door and out.

When he was gone, I took one quick look at the clock that told me school's been out for five minutes. I collected that time knowing there was still some left before everyone would decide to get together only to say goodbye and disperse by scooting my chair all the way around to Tweek's side. He stayed put, watching me curiously, cheeks a soft shade of pink.

Once we were side-by-side, instantaneously I said, "If you don't spill everything, I will beat it out of you."

"W-What?" The blonde ogled at me. The apples of his cheeks warmed with more color.

"I want to know every fucking detail, dude. That was _not_ Craig just now. How the hell did you do that?" That and I needed to understand how they made their relationship work, even if it didn't make sense since it wasn't like I could use his tips on my best friend.

"O-Oh," Tweek giggled nervously. "H-He's always been like that. It's just that nobody's ever paid attention." He fumbled with his pencil, now trying to fit an eraser into a cockpit that was overflowing with led.

"Uh, no." I opposed disbelievingly. "He started acting like that after _you_." At my words, his skin blossomed further, a rosy hue bleeding into the bridge of his nose. "Come on, Tweek. We've been friends since third grade. Just give a little for once and brag to me about your relationship. I know you want to."

As far as I knew, the blonde was fairly quiet when it came to Craig, just like he was with all things of interest to him. He was always very short with his answers whenever anybody questioned him, especially Kenny, because more times rather than not that pervert asked for rather vulgar details. Our friendship dated back to elementary school, but whereas that fact wasn't uncommon with my other friends, Tweek was actually a significant person to me.

We often shared personal information and found a certain solace within each other. I knew I could trust him and he the same with me. We were those couple of people that had no heart to betray, and perhaps that was why we got along nicely. He was just an interesting kid with a different view on everything. Sometimes I needed his quirkiness to tone down the constants of everything else.

Passing a furtive glance my way, Tweek inhaled shakily. Nerves apparent, I smiled warmly at him and leaned my elbow against the table, chin in my hand. Tentatively, he began to speak. "I—... I don't know, man. What is it y-you want to know?"

"_Well_," I exaggerated teasingly. "What's he like when you're by yourselves? I can't see him being anything other than an asshole." Tweek shook his head, a grin like boiling sugar contorting his features, masking his face in a darling expression of adoration. I couldn't keep the grin from eating up my face.

"You guys really have no idea," he speculated dearly. His eyes met mine. "Craig's a nerd." He laughed as he spoke, like he honestly couldn't understand that all of his friends were oblivious. My brows rose, intrigued, at his confession.

"Really?" I inquired quite dubiously. In that one word was a flurry of questions, and Tweek appeared suddenly excited to answer each of them.

"Yeah, dude. Like, he sings. A lot." Shaking his head, he seemed humiliated for the humiliation of himself. "He doesn't suck at it, but he knows it embarrasses me, so he does it all the time. And he worships Stripe, his guinea pig. Literally, I get a picture every morning of Craig and Stripe cuddling. He likes to think it makes me jealous."

"Do you guys ever go out?" I asked fondly.

"S-Sometimes. Uhm—it's not like fancy dates or anything like that, though!" He blushed, dashing to fix his answer, and my smile widened. "Craig's not really—he doesn't do the public thing very well. Not that he's t-trying to hide us or anything! He really couldn't care less; he just likes to stay in and make soup and french fries and play video games and stuff." I asked him to enunciate the whole soup and fry scenario. "Craig can't cook and he says that when I try to use the oven it scares him, so he'll make us canned soup and frozen french fries all the time."

Dear God, this was the cutest thing I've ever heard in my entire life. Stan and Wendy never did cute stuff like that. They went out to Raisins and drank beer and fought all the time. "I don't want you to get embarrassed when I ask this" —and I probably shouldn't have started off with that because Tweek immediately closed in on himself— "but I'm genuinely curious to know if you're still a virgin."

A few seconds passed where he just sat there and blanched. I tried to determine the answer through his terrified expression, but with him, it was possible that a face like that could go either way. "We uh—Sweet Jesus, um. Yeah. I mean, n-no. I'm—I'm, no. No, not really."

"Not really?" I laughed.

"K-Kyle, please don't laugh." He was too, though, albeit anxiously.

"Okay, okay." Sobering up, I proceeded with, "How's the sex, then?"

He hid his face from view in his arms, whimpering, "Oh my god."

"Nope! Don't try to hide! You have to tell me, dude!" Tugging at his shoulders, I unfolded him back into a slouched, up-straight position.

"_Fine—_fine, fine, fine." Before going on, he glanced about nervously as though there were actually others in the room that would hear and were listening in. "It's awesome, dude." For the next moment he seemed to disappear into himself, thinking things through or possibly about the last time they fucked. When he came around, he was flustered. "Maybe I shouldn't talk about it."

"You are not doing this me," I ordered. "What? Is Craig going to get angry or something? I demand insight into your sex life!"

"No, no! It's just that I..." His next words came fast, mushed together like a blender was crunching them all up. "I don't want to get turned on talking about it."

"What?" My laughter was hysterical. "I don't want details like _that_! Just give me a run-down, dude."

"I know! I wouldn't go into detail like—like _that_! I'm just s-sensitive." He quieted down. "Or something. Craig says I'm sensitive."

Quirking my brows, I asked while already knowing the answer: "So does that mean it's easy for him to get a rise out of you by talking dirty?"

"I don't know." But it was an obvious yes.

Knowing that I was going to have to direct Tweek through a description, I started asking some rather direct questions. "What's Craig like?" Since I didn't think the blonde was going to take pride in having to explain himself.

Shrugging humbly, he answered, "He's gentle. I mean, he kind of has to be, because of me. He knows that I don't like to go fast, so sometimes he gets angry, and it's really funny." He giggled at his own personal thought and I thought it was cute. "I think he's got some secret kinky side that he's trying to hide from me, because sometimes he'll get a little rough, but it's not like—you know, I wouldn't mind. If he wants to do something, I don't... I don't want to be like, 'nope, try another time' or something. I want him to have a-a good time, too."

"Is that what you guys do? Have a 'good time'?" I teased. His face would be permanently pink if he continued to blush like he was. "Alright, sorry about that one. How often do you have a 'good time'?"

"I hate you," he mumbled, hiding his face again, but in his hands this time.

"So how often? Daily? Please don't say weekly. That'll be so disappointing."

"Oh, definitely not weekly."

"How often?" I exclaimed, surprised at all that I was hearing. I just couldn't picture this kid who was always the scared virgin and this guy who was always unable to get a boner having sex. With each other. 'Oh, definitely not weekly.'

"Just e-every few days, s-sometimes more, sometimes less." He swallowed thickly, and I was seriously scared that he was getting turned on, but then he looked at me and his features weren't as delicate at they usually were. His eyes were stricken, his skin flushed although not with blush, his lips pursed tightly. "I don't know if he'd be able to handle it. If it were every day, I mean."

That's when I thought he was joking. So I laughed and clapped him on the back, humoring what I thought was his mask of conceit. And then he defined his meaning. "Every time... it changes. Like, there's a noticeable difference..." Was their relationship not as utopian as it seemed? Why couldn't anyone ever see it? He saw the questions plaguing my mind and acted fast to clear the air. "Not like that! No, n-never like that." And if it wasn't that, and based on his reaction it wasn't even close, then it was the complete opposite.

It dawned on me, what he was possibly trying to say.

"Um." I was mortified that that was the only thing I could manage. He nodded his head, which only made to solidify my hypothesis.

"He's so sweet sometimes, and gentle and careful, that honestly... it hurts, dude. I wish that someone could be there" —it didn't even matter how it sounded because he looked so scared— "just so they could tell me what's going on. I don't understand it when he just stares at me and—and it's just _different_. It's not like it was before. And I'd say something to him, but I'm worried. When I notice it... he looks like _he's_ the fragile one. I don't even know if he knows whats going on, what—"

I let him break off into silence before inquiring him. "I don't mean to be blunt or sound like I'm rushing you or anything, but do you think he... or you..." He knew what I was going to ask and choked on a nonexistent barrier in his throat. "Do you think might you're in love?"

"N-no!" He laughed, but it was forced and mutilated. "It's definitely not that." He couldn't even say the word. "But I think t-that's where it's headed." Inside, I wanted to consolidate him, to appraise him for having the strength to say no when he was clearly so frightened by the mere idea of it. Most teenagers thought they were in love after the most minute spaces of time, and here he and Craig were, having been together for the past three years, and he still couldn't even fathom the word 'love' in association to their relationship. I thought it said plenty about his level of maturity. "Dude, I-I'm only seventeen! How is this shit happening?"

"Well," I hummed reassuringly. "You have an entire lifetime to talk to Craig about this, and I think he'd be pretty pissed to find out that you talked to me about it first, so I want this to be something for you and him. Just let it happen, whatever it is, and don't think too hard on it. A perfect relationship like the one you were so graciously blessed with doesn't need to be thought about. Everything will put itself where it needs to be, I'm sure." Hopefully he wouldn't think too hard about my little sarcasm at the end there, either. It just wasn't fair that an asshole like Craig was in fucking Eden with his boyfriend every goddamn day of his life. And supposedly the sex was great. _Fucking assholes._

"Thank you." This time it was me who blushed. Tweek sounded so sincere and innocent, so uncorrupted, like we weren't talking about relationships that had the ultimate power to ruin lives or devour people inside and out. I also didn't think it was adequate of me to give advice about something I had no experience in, so I quickly made an attempt to squash the subject.

"So I hear Craig's got a nice dick." _Awesome, Kyle. This is why you're in all AP classes and have an A hour, isn't it?_ I wanted to shove his forgotten, gluttonous pencil into my eyeball, sit there, and bleed out. _Hey, Tweek. You just admitted to how you're potentially falling in love, so lets talk about some penis while you're at it._

"Sweet mother of God." Tweek hunched over, running his hands down his face, giving me a look like this was the specific detail that absolutely nobody had any semblance of an idea about. Certainly not the reaction I was expecting. "Alright, so Craig wants to be a nudest, right?" Yeah, because everyone knew that. I stared at him, incredulous. He waved away my honest emotion. "Well, he totally wants to be one. Jokes about it all the time. So he walks around, sleeps, just sits there, naked all the time. And I see his penis and I'm like, yes please. All the time."

"_Whoa'kay_." My hands went up in astounded disbelief. Since when did Tweek _ever_ talk like that? "Was not expecting to hear that. Ever. In my entire life. That's all I can see in my head now. Craig naked. Checking the mail naked. Walking Stripe naked. Fixing his car. Naked."

Tweek exploded, laughing hysterically. It was the most thunderous noise I'd ever heard, erupting like molten lava from his soft, tender, now abused vocals. It took me no time at all to laugh along with him, and I was so happy that I'd decided to talk to him after school, because this moment made everything okay. All that I'd endured this weekend with Stan and Wendy—gone. Now all I could think about was Craig doing everyday things. Naked.

I'm unsure as to how long we just sat there making a raucous as though the empty classroom was our domain, and every time we simmered down, all we had to do was look at each other before we disappeared into hysterics all over again. Somewhere along the line, though, Craig had found his way back to his boyfriend and even brought some friends along, one in particular that wasn't necessarily a friend of his that made my laughter stunt. Stan was wandering into the room with him, Token, Clyde, Kenny, and Butters.

The only thing that made it better was the smile that Craig wore, and I knew it was only there because he had shown up to the surprise of a deliriously happy Tweek. Too bad he wasn't aware that it was _himself_ at the brunt of our joke. Even so, I didn't think I've ever seen such a natural smile on his face before. It was crooked and his eyes were exotically luminous and he looked terribly delicate. This was the change that frightened Tweek.

"What's so funny?" He asked, and I thought it was leaning more toward wanting to know what affected his blonde so positively rather than honest curiosity.

Tweek answered without delay, and I liked how they could say humiliating things about each other without having to worry. "You being a nudest." Now the noirette just looked happily annoyed, so I pictured him with that expression, naked, and the blonde must've done the same, because we were laughing all over again.

"I'm serious when I say that. So you better get ready for some nude beaches, Coffee Bean. It's happening." He plopped his lanky body down into his chair from before and pulled it closer so he was on the opposite side of the blonde. Everyone else found themselves a seat and I made sure not to even look at Stan. I didn't want my mood ruined. Not again, and not by him.

"Please don't," Tweek giggled, offering him a half apologetic look.

"No, it's happening," Craig assured, tossing his arm around the back of Tweek's chair as he sagged back in his own. Just as before, it wasn't allowed to stay, although this time it wasn't due to a downward spiral in the blonde's attitude. Quite the contrary, and I sniggered when it was lifted away to be placed in his petite lap. Their fingers intertwined against Tweek's lithe thighs. A smile, different from the one before yet just as devoted, touched the dark haired teen's lips.

"So," I began, speaking loud enough to grab the attention of the couple. "I'd like to know if there are any hidden nudes of Craig, because I hear his dick is the shit, and now I want to see it for myself." Kenny, Clyde, and Token barked out a unanimous laugh, and for a moment I thought Tweek had played me, but there were other sources of which I'd heard good news from, ones that weren't of the same gender.

"I would _not_ mind touching Craig's penis every day for the rest of my life," Kenny mused from across the table. "My offer for a threesome is still on the table, Tweek. Literally. Right here, right now. Just say the word."

While Tweek shyly declined, Craig said, "I'd show you, but Blondie doesn't like it when I drop my pants for other people." He propped his head on his boyfriend's shoulder, peering across at me with a 'sucks' face without any real conviction behind it.

"So no nudes?" I requested for a second time.

The ones who were in on some inside scandal laughed at our table. "The one time I sent a nude to Tweek, he deleted it before even looking at it." I understood their humor now and ordered an explanation.

Tweek grew colored before answering timidly, "The government will check my phone. They'll see Craig's penis and want it for themselves, so they'll take him away from me." The worst part underneath all of the hilarity was how serious he was about the situation. This poor poor kid, and poor poor Craig.

Disappointed, I diverted to a different branch of the same topic. It would be easier to ask the noirette than to get it out of the blonde himself. "I went ahead and asked Tweek about you earlier, and I think it's only fair that I do the same to you, so what's he like during sex?" At my question, Tweek hung his head, humiliated but obviously knowing there was no way to stop an answer from procuring. Craig looked rather enthused to answer, and I had to wonder if he's ever spoken about their sex life before.

"Tweek's a little tricky to take care of," he started. My brows rose of their own accord, although I wasn't sure if I was expecting an answer like that or not. It seemed both real and false. "I have to pace things and I'm not allowed to go fast."

There it was again, the whole 'fast' ordeal. "Why's that?" Clyde asked, sitting closer with his elbows on the table. "I've never heard this before."

"Premature ejaculation. He can't handle it." If Tweek was humiliated before, he was positively shame-ridden now. "He'll get mad at me whenever he does. I don't know why."

"Because you laugh at me!" The blonde cried, crestfallen with embarrassment.

"Oh yeah?" Craig inquired, as if reminding himself of something. "Well, the best part is when he gets me back. Because, you know, he already came, so it's like Craig doesn't need to anymore." The entire table was boisterous with guffaws, not only at Tweek's remarkable secret comeback, but at the dark haired teen's use of himself in third person. It was perfect.

"Tweekers tamed the beast!" Kenny hollered, clapping his hands in time with his laughter. "Thank God, someone needed to teach that beautiful dick a lesson."

Craig shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, making a move to stand. He'd said what he wanted and now it was time to head out; always curt, always quick. His boyfriend stood with him, bending momentarily to pick up his bag off the floor as well as his pencil which I was positive wouldn't work in it's blotched state of fullness.

"We need to give Stripe a bath," Craig said to only Tweek. "You're doing it this time."

"N-No way, dude!" The blonde disagreed, tossing his backpack over one shoulder, the other occupied by Craig's hand. "There's a higher chance of him dying with me."

"There's a higher chance of everything with you," the noirette rebutted, pecking the petite blonde's nose.

He frowned, muttering with a steady blush, "Why can't you just let me be a horrible person for once?"

As the dark haired teen smirked, he said, "Because I don't think of you that way, ever."

The moment they were gone I turned to his friends and stated, "They are the cutest couple I have ever seen in my entire life. They're perfect. I'm not even gay, and I'm jealous. Why has the world screwed me over?"

Kenny stared off after them with a look of calm soothing his handsome features. "Because people will get what they deserve."

"Craig's an asshole," I countered, correcting his fallacy. Token and Clyde, the douche bag's own best friends, nodded along.

The only blonde left turned around and met my eye. His emotions were too laid back, to unreadable, too observing. I wanted to know what he was trying to see in me, how many layers he was attempting to peel back to find his proof of whatever he was spying on. "Craig needed to know that he couldn't live by himself. He's half a fucking human. Nobody's going to live like that and survive."

"So I don't deserve to get anything?" I questioned, going for a different approach since he'd beaten my last one. Again, Token and Clyde agreed with me, just as much for themselves as for I.

A glint lit up the blonde's powder blue eyes. "You already have everything you need," he said.

"You're not a fucking guru, so shut the fuck up Kenny," I grumbled, not enjoying how fortune cookie his answer sounded. I did _not_ have everything I already needed. I didn't have my super best friend. I didn't have a relationship in a constant dimension of paradise. I didn't even have the charisma to get any of that.

All I had was a bigass brain that would get me money and shallow feelings from women who were gold diggers. Perhaps Kenny would like that, but I didn't. Not at all. I wanted something deeper than that, and after seeing the possibilities of what could be thanks to Craig and Tweek, my need for that only exemplified. Nobody was going to like a freckled ginger, though.

The space around me darkened. A shadow loomed above. Without looking I knew it was Stan, but I did it anyways because I thought he should get at least a little bit of civility out of me before I cracked down on him. He was looking down at me warily after having been in tune to my ignoring him earlier. That was smart of him, I thought, maybe he'd get the hint and leave completely. But after a second, he didn't, and he stayed right there, and something told me that it was because he was waiting for _me._

_Well, if that's what you want._ Getting out of my seat, I strolled past him and called back, "See you tomorrow or something."

"I thought I was giving you a ride." I could hear him coming up behind me.

"Yeah, well, that privilege kind of disappears when Wendy reappears. Go take her home or something."

Before I could reach the door, Stan's hand encircled my arm and stopped me. Not wanting him to snap at me for being stubborn, I turned around and inclined my head so that I could see him. There was still a cautious note in his eyes, coupled with confusion and a hint of annoyance.

"I always take you home, dude. Why does Wendy have to change that?" Maybe because it always happened when they're relationship was on good terms. I'd be the third wheel in the back like always. I probably should've just shoved myself in the trunk all those times they flirted in the front seat and ignored me for the entirety of every ride I'd graciously accepted because of my unfortunate sense of kindness.

"Because you forget about me whenever she's in the car. Last time this happened, you took her home and then went straight to your house, walked inside, and locked me in your car." Kenny and Cartman had laughed when I told them that story, and Stan had done so as well when I had to call him to let me out because it was honestly just my luck that his car would be broken, allowing for the doors to be unlocked from the outside only. Unbeknownst to him, I was devastated and scared ever since.

"That's not my fault, dude." He chuckled at the memory, and that pissed me off. Aware of my glare, he said, "You should've said something."

My retort was short and crude. "I shouldn't have to say anything to remind you that your best friend is in the car with you."

Sighing, Stan slackened his shoulders, posture deflating. "Wendy won't even be in the car. It's just going to be you and me."

But I wasn't interested. Walking home actually sounded like a great idea. I'd get to clear my head in weather that wasn't too cold yet. "I'm going to pass." When I turned around, he stopped me for a second time. "What?" I asked, one harshly bitten word.

He veered backwards, stunted for a instant. "Can we..." My best friend wasn't even sure if he should ask, and I didn't blame him. Personally, I just wanted to drop today and go into hiding for however long it took for his and Wendy's disastrous relationship to blow over. "Can we hang out later at least?"

"No." I couldn't believe he was still trying for my good side. Had I not made it apparent that I wanted nothing to do with him for the time being? "That's not going to happen."

Honestly, he seemed shocked, and I took from that a sense of accomplishment. "Well, uh..." Dropping my arm, Stan scratched the back of his head. "How about..." Unable to think of anything better than hanging out today, he asked, "Why can't I come over?"

Blunt, I told him, "Because I don't want to hang out with you." Regrettably, I actually wanted to accept his offer very very badly. All the time, every time, whenever or whatever or I-didn't-even-care-what, if Stan asked to spend time with me, there wasn't an ounce inside of myself that didn't want the same. I adored my best friend and wanted every free opportunity to be spent with him—there was nothing else in the world that I wanted besides that—but Wendy was the largest obstacle ever to set foot before me, and I didn't have enough of anything to compete against her.

As horrible and awful as it sounded, I couldn't beat her. Stan's own best friend couldn't out-win his fucking elementary school sweetheart. He believed they were soul mates and therefore I was one step below her at all times whether anyone, especially myself, wanted to believe it or not. Friendship wasn't supposed to work that way, but sometimes there were certain people who were naive enough to believe it was.

And all I could think about, despite how pained and sorry I was for myself, was how ruined Stan was going to be one day because of that belief of his. There was only so much a best friend with little equality toward a stupid girl could do, though. His opinion couldn't be swayed, and I felt helpless toward him, and Wendy, and their relationship, and our friendship. There was only so much of that I could take, because I wasn't a vulnerable person, and Stan wasn't the only one going into ruin.

"You don't want to hang out," he repeated. I looked away, and I hoped that my insecure movement wasn't going to be the small detail that screwed me over. It was just hard to look at him when his eyes dimmed to a stormy blue and his lips pouted and his dark brows knit together and that worry line appeared between them and he pinched the bridge of his nose to hide it because he knew it was there and— "Are you sure?"

_Stop it_, I wanted to say. He needed to quit throwing open all of these doors, all of the ones I so desperately wanted to walk through. It was aggravating and much too tempting.

I nodded. "Yeah."

His posture fell into one of disbelief, eyebrows hiked high. "Oh... Okay. Tomorrow, then. Or something."

"I don't know. Maybe Ill see you on Monday at school." A nice subtle hint that informed him that tomorrow wasn't happening. Or Sunday. A weekend without Stan sounded horrible and comforting, although I wasn't sure how those two could possibly go together, but it wasn't like I understood how Stan and Wendy could go together either.

"Alright, dude. That's cool, I guess." And then I left him as he stood there resembling a balloon losing its helium, catching a few quick words before the door shut. "Dude, Kenny. Why does Kyle have to be a bitch all the time?" Hearing that, I no longer felt bad for walking out on him.

On the way home, I thought about all possible matters of things: How inconsiderate people could be when it came to relationships. How I couldn't grasp the thought of how those people believed they were benefiting themselves by giving up something so great for something so harmful. Why a thought like that could make any sense. How simply they chose to sacrifice. What could possibly push a person to do such things. How instinctual desires like love even existed.

Getting nowhere with that, my brain delved on more personal tidbits of information. Like how Stan was disowning me and how fast I would place myself back into his life when he broke up with Wendy. How I absolutely couldn't wait for that moment and I'd be ecstatic when it happened. How much torture I was going put myself through up until that exact moment. Why I couldn't compare to Wendy. How Stan couldn't even reassure me that I was just as priceless as she was. What made me less desirable? Why wasn't I a goddamn girl?

Maybe I had all of my answers right there.

Staggering to a halt against a bus stop bench, my body retracted in on itself, unable to keep up on my angered walk any longer. I fell into the seat, face burrowed against the sleeves of my jacket. The fabric smeared my tears, not quite made of the right kind of thread to pick them up, much to my dismay. My nose sniffled and the chilly wind hurt when it hit my tear tracks, drying the liquid salt to my face before I could effectively wipe them away.

In a rush, I shimmied my phone out of my pocket and hurriedly sent a text to Kenny, the one guy who knew everything about everyone. All of his calculative stares, his fortune cookie guru talk, those jibes he always made toward Stan and I having a rather affectionate bromance—everything he's ever done to get me this far wasn't in secrecy anymore. He'd known all along.

_I'd_ known all along. I mean, I flirted with my best friend constantly:_ "Stop being so cute, dude." I hated it when he cried during I Am Legend, the part with Sam the dog, because he always blubbered like an idiot and I could never control the volume of which his watery blue eyes seemed to stand out._

I was always trying propose new excuses to touch him: _"Stan, get over here. Your hair's all whacked." Except it looked good all mussed, but I knew he liked it tamed, so I reached out toward his bent head and sifted my fingers through his dark locks. They were soft and clean and smelt like fresh grass. To be honest, though, I just wanted to feel his hair because I liked it._

I was jealous that Wendy got to do things with him that I never could: _"You asshole," Stan laughed. "That hurt." Obviously not enough to impair him, because in the next moment I was hauled into his arms and thrown onto the couch. I landed with a cry before Stan's face bombarded my vision. "Kiss it better, you fuck." He puckered his lips, the ones I'd just backhanded, and my heart ricocheted. I said something along the lines of "Gross, dude", but they didn't stop me from pecking his mouth. Part of me wondered how often Wendy did that without having to be told to, without having to joke about it._

Staring down at the screen of my phone, my eyes felt too big for my own head. Practically winking up at me was the message I'd sent:_ I know what's wrong with me_. Without another thought meant to hinder my motivation, I sent it. And then I waited there in the cold until Kenny messaged me back. Nine long minutes that seemed to drag on until I was practically frostbitten in the face and fingers. His reply made my eyes sting.

_It's okay, Kyle._

* * *

><p>Saturday night I was passed out in my bed after having pulled an all-nighter the day before. My thoughts hadn't stopped racing, but thankfully they slowed down with the loss of my energy, just enough to get some sleep. Kenny had invited me to a party, but I had been practically delirious at the time and answered him, <em>Nop, sleep nite bye<em>. Literally. It was the most embarrassing grammatical error to ever exist in the life of Kyle Broflovski, but there was a fair reason behind it. A fair reason that didn't exist in my dream world, and thank god that was where I was at the moment.

My luck was on a short leash these days, though, and something woke me up around one in the morning. I had dropped out of consciousness around eight, so at least it could've been worse. And then I realized that it was worse when a boisterous series of noises came parading into my room from downstairs. Flinging myself out of bed, I stumbled around in the dark for my phone, but I'd left it in my pants and I had no clue where they were. Instead, I thrust my blinds open to let the moon invade my room. There was no way I was turning my lights on; not in my state of needy sleep.

There was a slumping, scooting sort of noise that came from outside my door before the nob jiggled and Stan came stumbling in. There was a bottle of alcohol in one hand, a piece of glinting metal in the other. Suddenly, I was desperate to know why the hell we'd made a copy of my house key for him, why he was here, and why I couldn't seem to stop myself from ogling at his presence.

And then my rationality surfaced, as well as my embarrassment. He wanted a key so he could surprise me whenever he wanted; I wanted him to have a key so he could surprise me whenever he wanted _and_ sneak into my bed in the middle of the night while I was unaware so I could wake up in the morning to the surprise of him laying next to me.

Although I had no idea why he was at my house, I did know that my eyes and sleep deprived brain were literally devouring him for what he was wearing. A flannel shirt covered a portion of his long torso, all of the buttons undone to reveal the middle portion of his lightly tanned chest. The color matched his eyes, and his jeans clung imperviously close to his subtly lean figure. I felt like he'd just walked into the lion's den, some drunk little lamb, and I was about to lose it.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered, wincing when he tripped backwards in some estrange attempt to slam my door shut. I meant to add a fuck in there somewhere, but I couldn't quite bring myself to curse or emit anger. The only one at fault was me.

"_Kyle_," he cooed, trudging sideways into my wall. "Kyle, dude. I totally missed you, man. Friday I missed you. And Saturday, dude. And—and Sunday! Because it's after midnight, so I've been missing you these last two hours. Or... or..." He tipped his way toward the clock stationed next to my bed to stare at the electronic numbers far too closely. "One hour! I've missed you a lot of hours, plus this one today!"

Letting out a near shaking breath, I slipped a hand down the expanse of my face. "Stan, you should go home." I couldn't listen to him talk about how much he missed me. I couldn't listen to him talk at all, because even though his voice was slightly slurred, he had that gravely undertone he always got when he was drunk. The problem was that I liked the way it sounded, and he always got touchy when he drank too much. Touchy was the worst thing that could happen to me, and I was only in my fucking boxers.

"Why do you have to say that?" He flung himself around, losing his balance half-swing. Taking an ungraceful tumble to my floor, he brought the bottle of alcohol to his lips and took a hefty sip. "I wanna hang out but you tell me you gotta go home. I come over and you gotta say I hafta go home. Home is bullshit." Pointing an accusative finger at me, he said, "You're a bullshitter, Kyle."

"No, Stan. You're drunk. How did you get over here?" Hesitantly, I stepped over to him. It wasn't that he was drunk that made me wary. It wasn't his attitude, or the way he was glaring at me like I was a traitor. What scared me was how his shirt had fallen open, and one side was slipping down his shoulder.

"I _walked_," he snorted indignantly. "I walked all the way fucking down here, Kyle. From fucking some bitches house. Who smelled like fucking raunchy pussy!" Rolling over, he wobbled to his hands and knees, spilling clear vodka on my carpet. As an afterthought he added, "And I jacked her alcohol. I jacked it good. There's another bottle in my car."

"I thought you said you walked over," I accused. However he'd gotten here it was dangerous, but more so if he'd driven. Stan wasn't the type to do that. He was smarter than that.

Grabbing him by the shoulders, fingers close to trembling when one hand enclosed his bare shoulder, I heaved him up unsteadily. He swayed from foot to foot while I removed the bottle from his possession and placed it on my nightstand with the clock.

"I did walk," he mumbled. "Damn it. Whose car was that? It was open, so I put it in there cause I thought it was mine, and then I walked over. I didn't even drive to the party, dude. Someone stole my booze, dude! Someones driving away with it _right now_!" He looked about ready to march out of my house to reclaim him 'stolen' property.

"Stan, calm down." My hands were still on his shoulders, but now I was standing in front of him, and the view was fucking beautiful. He was a strong boy with a lean figure and sinewy muscle hidden beneath his skin. His chest was flat, the contours of his skin taut, and his hips jut out of his sagging jeans. Forcing myself to remove the hand actually touching his flesh, I was astonished and terrified when it was the opposite one that detached from his body. My pervert of a hand was practically glued to his naked shoulder.

"You didn't even hug me." His random change of topic wasn't enough to jar me out of my stupor, but it was a distraction at least. "You didn't hug me goodbye, and you didn't hug me when you saw me just now, and I'm very upset about that." He sounded childish, or maybe like I was the child and he had to talk to me like I was being scolded.

"Okay. I'm sorry for not hugging you, but you... you have to go..." My words died in my throat when his arms enveloped my slender body. They were warm, and his chest was warm, and my breath was warm when it bounced off his neck. I choked, frantically trying not to inhale his strong scent of clean, fresh grass and vodka. _No, please no. Please no. _His hands spread along my back, clenching the curves of my ribcage and waist. I couldn't tell what was worse: The way his skin rubbed against my own, or the way the texture of his shirt did.

The noirette hummed, the vibration setting off my pulse when it echoed against my chest. He garbled out a few words and then repeated them. "Why aren't you hugging...? You aren't hugging back." At the strangled note of his confused string of words, my heart expanded. Unable to resist, my arms swooped around his neck and latched around his shoulders. I had to stand on the tips of my toes to reach him as one of my hands slunk beneath his flannel.

My fingers felt the muscle in his shoulders flex as he adjusted his position to tie me securely against him. The aroma permeating off his skin felt like a second aura devouring my essence. I wanted to drown in his smell, whether there was the bitter taste of alcohol to it or not. Turning my head allowed my forehead to press flat against the column of his throat where I really was almost able to suffocate myself.

He kept squeezing me reassuringly, mumbling unintelligible things under his breath. Our chests had to breathe against each other in an oddly systematic way. We tottered, almost losing our balance quite a few times, but Stan wasn't about to let me break away, and neither was I. His cheek rested against the top of my head, weighing my own against his shoulder.

Less than fluid, he wavered back a step. I followed like his shadow, each shuffle of his feet bringing us closer to my bed. When we hit the edge, he teetered backwards. In a tangled mess of limbs unwilling to detach and two sets of legs attempting to search for some type of leverage, we ended up curled together against my pillows. Immediately, my body sank against my mattress. Stan's body was like a firm guardrail as my brain unintentionally began to undergo the process of powering down.

Fingers brushed the hair out of my face, pushing the loose curls behind my ear. Stan liked to do that when I was about to fall asleep, had for years. His digits were always gentle, like little ghostly spiders tickling my skin. His breath fanned out along my forehead, incredibly warm and enticing. He began to mumble stupid stuff, something about my hugs and then my hair, but at points it was hard to pay attention.

I couldn't stop myself from dozing and listening, a mindless multitask that made me lightheaded. "You're awesome, Kyle. You're so awesome, and really nice. You're like the nicest person I've ever met. And you're awesome. I dun ever wanna have any other best friend, dude. You're all I need... You keep me in check. I dun like it when you're not there, man. Yesterday sucked and you weren't there."

To let him know I was paying attention and thought highly of his words, I made to hum an affirmative, but no noise besides a breathy whisper would come out, so I sluggishly lifted a hand to pat his arm. It was the arm that his shirt was trailing off of. His skin felt soft and warm beneath my palm. I kept my appendage there, subconsciously circling my thumb, but it got to be too much. My fingers drifted, slipping down to his chest, where the steady beat of his heart played against my hand.

"I couldn't stop thinking 'bout you. I never can stop... all the time I'm thinking." His arms sidled me closer. Close enough that his lips brushed my forehead. "You look nice tonight. I dunno what it is, but you do, and you always do, and you did yesterday. And I was really excited to hang out cause you looked so nice." Without meaning to, my hand grasped his shirt, clenching it as tightly as my sleepy self could. Stan's mouth hovered over my skin, assaulting it with the warmth of his breath. My heart hammered against my ribcage and it felt good, slowly dragging me deeper into a hypnotizing sleep.

"Kyle... Kyle," Stan whispered, hands scouring for purchase against my back. His body shifted ever closer, our legs pressing and touching. "_Kyle_." My name was a sigh against the apple of my cheek. "Why do you gotta do this all the time ta me? Always, dude ...you always look so much prettier than Wendy. So much, all the time."

In a blissful haze of drowsiness, I failed to comprehend Stan's mouth descending upon my own, but the pressure and the moist heat made my sleepy state feel tantalizing. The kiss was sloppy and only half on the mouth. Saliva from his lips smeared against my cheek and he started speaking incoherently, kissing at every pause he felt the need to take. "I thought 'bout kissing you a lot... a lot... whenever I kissed Wendy. Every time she came back... I thought I could juss imagine you... and maybe it woulda been good enough..."

His fingers dug into my back, sealing me against his body. Flickered into awakening, my brain fizzled to life and my eyes snapped open. My hands had somehow worked their way toward his neck, clasping his nape and shoulder. During my impressionistic doze, my brain had been unable to recognize Stan's advances, but my body certainly had. We were strung together, mouths pressed close.

Teeth bit down on my bottom lip, a vitalizing sensation that I'd never felt before, and I gasped, losing the notion to push my best friend away. He sucked on the abused skin, causing my fingers to involuntarily tighten. I couldn't wrap my mind around what was happening, if this was a dream or not. His tongue swathed the area, dipping just barely into my mouth. The thought of my situation, seeing it in my head while I watched it in front of me—it sent fire licking through my veins and I couldn't control the urge to make a noise, some toneless moan of excitement.

Stan's hands dipped against my back, hugging my hips. My waist felt so small in his grasp, and I couldn't get the idea of those hands out of my head. Some incredible source of heat plagued my body, threatening to throw me back into a brilliant haze not of my consciousness. And then something clicked, hurdling everything back at me sevenfold, and the only thing I could do was gasp and squirm away from my best friend's drunken embrace. He followed me faster than I could move, had me caught beneath him as I tried to speak his name. His thigh came to rest between my legs and I didn't know what was happening anymore.

Cooing against the shell of my ear, he murmured, "Hey... hey, S'alright. S'fine. Everything's fine." But everything wasn't fine, I tried to think. My arms trapped above my head wasn't alright, and the way the noirette was sucking on my earlobe wasn't okay, and his leg so dangerously close to my crotch was anything _but_ that.

"N-No, oh fuck, no." I tried to wiggle my arms but they refused to budge, almost as if they were saying, _we _like_ this_. My imagination was procuring horribly seductive scenes of Stan's mouth leaving wet trails down my neck, of his thigh pressing flush against my crotch, his voice, his touch—and I was internally startled when my body began arching, neck exposing, hips lifting, as I performed to my own fantasies. I forced my body to deactivate, managing a choked out, "W-What are you doing?"

Leaning back a little, Stan gazed down at me. Through the glow coming from the window, I thought the image of him above me was the most attractive thing I'd ever seen. His onyx hair was tousled, eyes heavy lidded and fogged, pupils dilated; his lips were parted, swollen, and bruised and I wondered if _I_ had done that to him. Bare chested, his skin bronzed in the moonlight, heaving until his ribs showed with every deep inhalation.

My stomach shrunk as I watched his eyes, gluttonous vivid blues, drink in the sight of _me_. Under his possessive scrutiny, my cheeks flushed. I was close to naked with no shirt and my boxers slipping down my thighs. I couldn't look at him without my vision blurring, and every breath shook my entire body. He'd let go of my hands, but I couldn't quite figure out how to maneuver them.

The noirette bent forward, and as every inch our proximity lessened, every breath became harder to breathe. "I juss," he slurred, smirking. My lips parted and my eyelids fluttered when he tilted his head and slid his tongue inside my mouth. He tasted like vodka, but his invading appendage was warm and wet and I liked that. "I juss gotta know what Wendy's missin'... why she doesn't..." —breath hitching, my head inclined, and I had an uncontrollable urge to bring that tongue back to me— "...feel like this."

Biting my lip as harshly as I could in the hopes of overlapping my need for Stan with pain, I turned my head away. It wouldn't be any easier to tell him to leave if I had to look at him, yet just as hard when I wasn't. "S-Stan..." My voice wavered. That was the first time I'd spoken his name under our current situation, a sexual situation. "You're cheating on Wendy. You have to go."

"No." My best friend's remark was sharp, slicing through the silence of my room. I blinked at him, stunned by the authority of his tone. "I'm not leavin' 'til I get my fuckin' answers!"

He was already acting like he knew all of the answers, though. "Answers for _what_, dude? Ask _questions_, then! Don't—don't fucking molest me!"

Leering down at me, he smirked something derisive and cunning. "I'm not askin' questions cause Imma get them like this." To emphasize the meaning of his statement, he cupped my crotch placed so conveniently in front of him. My stomach sizzled, pulse lurching, vision shaking. A tremor coiled up my spine, and as his palm shifted deftly, my legs lost their wit and spread to accommodate his soft, groping action. Behind my head, my fingers fisted my bedsheets.

_O-Oh_, I thought, mind racing violently to assess the situation. The fabric of my boxers rubbed against my groin that was suddenly much too sensitive. Stan's fingers punctuated his motive by dipping, rounding the curves of my balls. My breath hung suspended in my lungs, and for a brief instant I lost my entire train of thought as he fondled me.

"You can't..." My brain bleeped out, gone momentarily to an intoxicating state of limbo. "...Do this." The noirette held my most sensitive organ firmly, devoid of my rejection. "This isn't right. You can't cheat on Wendy. Please don't cheat on her."

Something about my plea reached him then, because he hung his head and withdrew one of his hands. But it wasn't the one he was touching me with, and my groin was still on fire beneath his grasping palm. From his pocket he withdrew his phone, pressing a few buttons before lifting it to his ear. Fear curdled in the lowest level of my stomach as I watched him, completely helpless to the fact that I had a good inkling of what he was about to do. When there was an answer on the other line, he asked, "Wendy?"

My eyes widened, heart thumping for multiple reasons. I didn't feel real anymore. I felt like negative space with a goddamn hand rubbing me inappropriately. Against my inner rationality, my back arched off my bed when his fingers circled around my stiffening erection. I heard him say "I'm breakin' up with you," so simply that it almost hurt, but the confession sounded far away. His hand pumped once, a dangerously slow movement, and I gasped on account of its teasing rhythm.

Whatever she said, he responded with, "Things have never been okay... No, it's nothin' like that. I'm juss goin' ta have sex with Kyle." _Sex with Kyle_, my brain repeated. _Sex with Kyle_, the image of my best friend thrusting into me explained. _Sex with Stan_, I told myself. He was going to fuck me; I was going to lose my virginity.

A whimpered pant that I had no ability to control escaped from the back of my throat. My length swelled, constricted in the confines of my boxers. Stan threw his phone away haphazardly, leaning over me with his fingers hooked in the elastic waistband of my bottoms. His shoulders were limp but thick, blocking the dim light of the moon. With a dry mouth I croaked, "Stan, I haven't done this before."

The way he smiled dumbly down at me was too sweet. "I know," he murmured, sounding calmly ecstatic that he would be my first. "I know what ta do." He started easing my boxers off my hips.

"How? You've never had sex with a guy." And if he did, then I would be furious.

Catching on to my jealousy, he chuckled. "You're right. But I think Kenny's sex stories had an ulta—ultrio—ult—ulterior motive."

I shook my head in disbelief. _Of course they did._ Kenny was a fucking mastermind, playing patiently behind the scenes for ten years, giving and taking little nudges when needed. It all made sense now.

My boxers slid up my thighs, exposing my enlarged cock as much to my embarrassment as to Stan's enjoyment. I hid my face in the crook of my elbow, gasping silently when Stan's palm met my sensation-heightened flesh. Another fear clanked around the core of my stomach, crawling up my throat and out of my mouth.

"We don't have a condom," I blurted. "Or anything." Anything meaning lube, a word I was too shy to say.

Stan leaned forward, pecking my nearly numb lips. "You think Kenny woulda let me come over drunk and unprepared?" Digging back into his pocket, the noirette retrieved a condom and a small package of lubricant. "I didn't really get why he gave 'em ta me, and then I was walkin' over, and I thought 'Yeah, sex with Kyle sounds pretty good.'" My cheeks grew rosy under the knowledge that my best friend had come over with the intention of taking my virginity.

Knocking him against his chest, I muttered, "Asshole." Grinning, he tilted his head closer and breathed softly against my mouth. Salivating, I looked into his eyes and saw just how far gone he was. If he didn't remember this in the morning, then I'd make him.

The sound of his pants unzipping drove all of my sensibility into hiding. It echoed against the drum of my ears at the same time I felt my erection twitch. Arms moving as though magnetically attracted to Stan's body, they wrapped around his neck. I pulled him down, suctioning our mouths together. His tongue slipped fluidly between my lips, rolling against my own, slick with saliva.

As he invaded me further, he kicked off his jeans and peeled away my boxers in the process. My knees hugged his wide hips as he caressed my hard-on. His touch was light, but his mouth was rough. He nipped at my lips and sucked on my skin, and my eyes flickered behind my eyelids every time he pulled away to pant. Deep breaths puffed against my throat when he inched his face downward, kissing along my jaw, beneath my chin.

My fingers slithered into his hair, the soft texture of his locks making me cling to them. When my grip clenched, he bit down on my neck, sucking fervently at my flesh. The tender stroking of his hand on my erection grew stable, a steady motion that was so continuous it made my mind swirl. I turned my head away, gasping into my pillows a chopped up sound that gave everything I wanted away. Stan hummed against my skin, drawing it between his lips to rake his teeth across the abused section.

He slid his hand up to my hip, grasping the curve of my slim waist, in time to his hips veering down against mine. Although he still wore his boxers I could distinctly feel the contours of his erection. Our abdomens brushed almost teasingly before rubbing earnestly. My legs caged him, hooking at the ankle, tugging him lower until we were pressed flat together. The firm touch his groin against mine stuck to my thoughts, marring each of them positively vulgar and sexual. Hips jerking, I moaned in an allured sense of surprise at just how good Stan's body felt. I turned his face to mine, hands directing his cheeks, to delve my tongue into his mouth.

Arms poised on either side of me, the noirette rocked against my body, thrusting me into the bed. A whimpered moan tore from my throat, existing in our kiss for a delicate second before it dispersed with the sound of squelching spit. My hands slid toward the back of his head, drawing him forth every time he made to rock away. Our lips were pushing and pulling, tongues unable to break away. Every lurch of Stan's body sent my brain rolling, corrupting me with the temptation of removing his boxers, of rolling our naked bodies over, to jerk my hips against his, of getting _pummeled_ by my best friend.

"_Nghh—_" The noise appeared at a significantly harsh roll on Stan's part. "S-Stan... Stan, t-take them off." I couldn't bare to let go of his hair, afraid I'd sink straight through the floor with the heavy coating of lust taking control of me. "They need..." A hand traveled down the expanse of my chest, sliding up the course of my thigh. "...To come off." He grabbed the material of his boxers and I knew it the instant they came off.

I mewled low and soft. My entire body hugged him tightly as the intimacy of our positions turned abundantly clear. Face hidden in the crook of his neck, I deeply inhaled his scent now mixed with the light twinge of sweat. The noirette panted into my ear, a succession of identical sounds that matched the dry humping of his hips. Unable to form a coherent thought, my body worked with its own will, and my tongue lathered the column of Stan's neck with a wet trail of saliva. The flavor of his skin infiltrated my taste buds, forcing desire and need to the forefront of my mind.

He began to fumble for something on the bed, but I couldn't concentrate very well with his abdomen rubbing so vigorously against my own. In the back of my mind where my conscious lay I knew exactly what he was searching for, and I thought of his hands and his fingers, where those digits were going to go and what they were going to do and how I was going to feel. I clawed at Stan's back, muffling my groan against his shoulder when one of his lubricated fingers prodded at my behind.

As my inner fantasies unfolded, my body relaxed of its own accord, allowing for the noirette to slip his finger inside of me. He rasped out a choked up sound that alerted my attention. Pulling away to stare up at him, I witnessed how warm his cheeks were. It felt as though my heart were melting, globing in my chest and lungs until I couldn't breathe anymore. He was _blushing_, and I had to wonder if he was imagining what was going to replace his finger just as I was. A little further his digit pushed, before sliding out and repeating.

I pulled him close to me and kissed his cheeks, relishing in the heat they omitted. Humble, he chuckled breathlessly, brushing our mouths together. Our tongues met, and to encourage him, I shifted against his finger. A hitch in my pulse caused me to pull away, and I laid with my head against the pillows and my eyes closed, moving with the motion of his hand.

His second finger literally snuck in there, stowing away with the first, and for a moment I didn't even realize what had happened. I felt fuller, but the discomfort wasn't necessarily negative, just strange, and I felt a stretch, but it wasn't significant enough to concentrate on. Rather, I was preoccupied by the feel of his fingers moving. They had yet to do anything other than pull in or out, but the rhythmic beat of which they progressed ignited a pit of fire in my stomach.

And then his fingers curled, and I could feel the strength of their push against my interior walls. My mouth slackened as soundless pants blew through my parted lips. Again his digits curved, and they continued to do it, and I felt it every time; and after every movement, my eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings. It was when his fingers twisted, though, in time to his random curling, that I dropped my head back and bared my neck, moaning vocally into the open, gasp-filled space of my bedroom. My muscles clenched, and I didn't even get enough time to suck in a breath before he dug his fingers against that spot a second time.

My hips bucked against his hand as a raging rush of heat went straight to my dick. Stan came at me again, pressing harder. I had to shove my arm into my mouth to keep from making too loud of a noise, and all too soon I was thinking of next time when we would be alone and I could be as loud as I wanted. I'd never even thought of myself being so vocal, and I probably should've been embarrassed at how descriptive some of them sounded, but every time they came out, Stan's fingers felt twice as good, so I didn't want to stop.

The noirette didn't seem to want them to stop either. He was gazing down at me, vision shaking from alcohol and lust, dilated eyes so half mast that they almost appeared closed. I saw an emotion akin to awe flit passed his clouded stare every time I moaned. Some of them I purposefully made just so I could watch his beautiful eyes light up.

Swallowing thickly, Stan bent closer and whispered against my lips one silent command: "Fuck yourself." Sleep deprived, lustfully intoxicated, about-to-get-fucked-by-his-best-friend Kyle thought that his order sounded like a great idea. With his free hand, the noirette locked my arms above my head by my wrists. I had nothing to mute my wanton moans; yet, I thrust against his fingers anyways. Biting down on my lip while my hips gyrated, I allowed for only mewls and purrs to escape.

I couldn't bring myself to feel humiliation toward my position under Stan's intent watch, because every time I glanced down I could see how stiff his erection was, and knew that it was because of _me_. So I let him take in the sight of me arching against his fingers, fucking myself as he'd instructed, and I let him enjoy it. He wasn't the only one benefiting. The blazing inferno in my stomach and the erect position of my arousal was more than enough to compensate for being spied on as I pleasured myself. But more than that: I trusted Stan. This wasn't a joke; this was mutual.

Blocking the handsome features of my best friend, my head turned to the side, forehead resting against my arm. "Stan—_ah_," I gasped, close to loosing myself in the curling of his fingers. "N-no more, no more." Opening my eyes, I peered up at him as though through a hazy fog. I wanted to see his reaction when I begged for him.

"Please—_mmm_!" The color of his vision brightened considerably. "I need-... I need you to fuck me. Not w-with your fingers—_hahh_..." The way his gaze darkened sent heat pooling in the bottom of my stomach. No longer were they blue, but eaten up by black. Fingers trembling slightly, I maneuvered my hand down the straight line of his torso and thigh, dragging my palm to the side when it lined up with his erection. Grasping its hard length, larger than I expected, I asked, "W-Where's the condom?"

Chest heaving, Stan reached around and came back with the odd, little package. I had never associated a condom with the two of us, but now every time I'd see one I'd think of this night. My cheeks prickled in the beginnings of a blush. When he removed his fingers, a forlorn sort of sensation grabbed a hold of me, lighting up my newly colored face. Before he could put the condom on himself, I grabbed the rubber from him and situated my body between his legs.

While I slid the condom over his erection, listening for the moments when his breath came particularly harsh, I laughed quietly, disbelievingly. "What are we doing, dude?" Glancing up, we locked gazes, one intoxicated, one exhausted, both boiling over with lust.

He brought our faces close together, nuzzling his nose against my cheek. "Are you worried?" His voice was husky, an octave I'd never heard before.

"S-Somewhat." Were things ever going to be the same after this?

Laying me back down, he grabbed my knees and pushed them apart, placing himself between them. "Dun worry," he licked his lips, "Imma take care of you. Now, and after this, and all the time... all the time." He liked to say that when he was drunk, I noted. _All the time._ As carefully as his unstable posture could be, he aligned himself with my entrance and gingerly pushed forward.

My eyes widened. Undulated curiosity was hurdling through me. This wasn't how I pictured it to feel. The sensation was sour and I winced in discomfort, smacking Stan's chest to make him stop. He froze, leveraged above me. One of his hands smoothed the damp curls haloing my face. When he asked what was wrong I said, "I don't know, you fuck. Maybe I have a dick in my anus and it hurts."

A goofy grin contorted his features. "Is it a nice dick at least?" Snickering down at me, I thought that this was the drunk Stan I wanted to see. His hand sidled down my neck, resting against my shoulder where he kneaded the muscle tenderly.

"It's kind of girthy, but I guess it'll do." His eccentric smile reassembled my sex drive. "Go ahead and—" Asshole didn't even wait for me to finish suggesting he continue before he was easing himself inside of me, past the knot of his head and down a little further. I wrapped my arms around his neck, instinct directing me to lift my legs higher on his waist.

Again, his hand moved. From my shoulder, it set a firm path down the curve of my huffing chest, planting itself on my hip where he gripped tightly, pulling me against the motion of his delicately slow thrust. I sighed winsomely, latching my limbs around his back. Very different from his fingers, the penetration of his erection caused an ebbing discomfort to form around my bottom. Still, it was the idea of what would soon happen that excited my core to the point of encouraging a moan.

When the sound left my mouth, the bedsheets near my head shifted, and glancing over, I saw that Stan was clutching them so tightly that his knuckles were white. Above me, he hung his head and panted. Dark locks swayed with his every breath. His squeezed my hip, fingers digging into my skin and bone.

"You," he scoffed, "are definitely a virgin." At his observation, my breath caught in my throat.

I forced myself to regain any semblance of dignity left behind in the flood of my embarrassment, somehow coming up with a flirtatious chuckle, a teasing "Not anymore", and a shallow thrust. My actions spurred him into action, starting with a generous roll of his hips, followed by a reproachful moan—the first I'd heard from him all night. Re-lit, my fire zinged through out my body, sensitizing all of my nerve endings. A puzzled gasp filtered from my mouth.

The walls of my interior could feel each miniscule, fine movement of Stan's erection, and although he wore a condom, I could still just barely pick up on the details of his thick length. I wanted him to move like his fingers had with a steady, reverberating rhythm. My arms constricted his shoulders, and maybe he'd picked up on my silent need or maybe he felt it himself, but his next movement was to rock me into the bed.

Humming softly, my nails scratched lightly against his skin. The pillows beneath my head felt good, and Stan's body felt good, and the steaming temperature of his figure was boiling me alive so seductively, and his mouth felt good where it caressed the pre-abused section of my neck. He pulled his groin away, rubbing my insides invigoratingly, and sunk back in, hitting a dead end when his hips connected with mine. I tossed my head back, giving him leeway for my throat, but at the same time I had needed to do that, because something about his thrust irked me to arch and squirm.

Our hips clashed, and the harder he rocked, the more he moaned. His pace was set, quick second long bursts of thrusting that sent my pulse racing twice as fast. I would have a bruise on my hip by morning, but the needy clench of his hand on my body only turned me on more. Lifting my abdomen in time with his movements, I doubled his penetration and sent him deeper inside of me. Drawn out noises of desire and greed tumble from my lips, all uncensored, all more self-pleasuring than the last.

Against the shell of my ear, Stan started mumbling my name. The tempo of which his erection was rubbing me—always, always so constant—matched his voice. My nails dragged across his back at a thrust angled particularly deep. He chuckled, teasing me about whether he was getting close or not. I had no idea what he was talking about, couldn't even manage to understand his vulgar language with all of the heat fumigating my brain, but he shifted inside of me a bit differently another time, and my figure spasmed with shivers.

"_S-Stan_?" My voice was barely above a whisper. His hips approached me again, and once more there was a slight oddity to his thrust, but that was all he needed to pinpoint the area inside of me that sent pleasure wracking through my entire body. _My prostate_ was what he was talking about. "O-Oh, _god_."

He slammed into the collected bundle of sensitive nerves, some awfully strong power controlling the roll of his hips. I did the first thing my brain could formulate and bit down on his muscled shoulder, eyelids fluttering as I tried to mute my desire-filled cries. Spasms of heat and tremors and knowing that this was _Stan_ overtook my mind, and I had to let him control my hips for me, too paralyzed by pleasure to do it myself.

Between our chests, my erection rubbed, caught in the middle of our stomachs. It weeped, leaking precum. Biting down harder, I could feel the indention my teeth were making in his flesh. The noirette rocked faster, picking up his pace while delving deeper, his throaty moans making me dizzy. My vision was flickering and all I could see was the image of my hands clawing at his back. Exhaustion, and pleasure, and Stan's sinful presence were making me lose it. My jaw began to slacken.

At my give, he gently, despite the roughness of his thrusts, lowered my arched back to my bed. I buried my head in my pillows, staring dazedly up at him out of the corner of my eye. He sat up, lean body tense with exertion and something that wasn't my job to do. His free hand encompassed my hardened length, and any thoughts of how gorgeous he was dropped straight to my groin. I moaned passionately, wondering if that one had been too loud or if I should make another one to make up for the previous one's quiet tone.

I was reckless now, and as Stan stroked me thoroughly both inside and out, I decided to make myself louder. The noirette smiled, a stretch of his lips that only seemed to be half there. "You look like you're 'bout ta pass out," he huffed, closing his eyes when a low sound was drawn from the back of his throat.

Smiling back, my body arched, and when I moaned with him I wasn't sure if I was dreaming the noise or not. "You too, _ah—mmm_!"

"Kyle," he cooed, momentarily present in reality before his head dropped and he had to shake himself awake. My smile widened, and I quickly took in every detail I could spot: the beginnings of welts just beyond the near-bleeding bite mark on his shoulder, his wearily vivid eyes, the heaving of his muscled torso, his breathy groans, my erection in his hand, his own disappearing inside of me.

I was distinctly aware of saying his name, even more so when his thrust and stroke were just right and a blaze of everything that I could ever feel for him exploded. My muscles clenched around his dick, still beating against my over-exhausted prostate, but there was a moment where everything froze and Stan's vision blurred from beneath his thick lashes. We were perfect right then; everything was perfect, and there wasn't a single thing that wasn't just so.

He collapsed on top of me, somehow having the mind to pull out and roll us over, or maybe he didn't and it was just his natural instinct being the smart one. The light had changed outside, now a midpoint where the sun wanted to come out and the moon wasn't quite ready to move on. And I felt as though I were the moon, but I was sleep deprived so maybe everyone who needed to pass out for a long time thought like that, yet still I held onto Stan like I was about to leave him and go on to travel space alone.

* * *

><p>When I woke up, my best friend was laying there, brushing my hair behind my ear like he always did, and I had to tell myself that I really had just been sleep deprived.<p>

* * *

><p>On Monday, word spread fast without word ever being spoken. Somehow, Kenny and his damn detective genes figured it out the exact moment he saw Stan and I. I blamed it on my Super Best Friend for accepting the condom Saturday night. What else was to be expected other than that fucking had ensued?<p>

That morning before the bell rang, we all met up. Kenny's charming smile was radiant.

Cartman saw the effect we had on our friend and pointed it out, angrily so. "Aye, the fuck, brah? Why you gotta be so happy, Kinny? It's pissing me off."

"Oh, you know, just the glow that's loitering around Kyle's unvirgin ass." The embarrassing part was that Craig's gang was also loitering around, just not by my ass thank god. "Sorry for spoiling the surprise. I do believe that I should receive full credit, though, since I was the one who pushed Stan in the right direction. Full payment will entail all property rights to Kyle's anus—"

"Done," Stan accepted, nudging my shoulder to push me forward.

"What?" Not only was I mortified but rejected.

Turning around, I slammed my fist into the noirette's stomach. He choked, laughing around the smack of my knuckles. But to be honest, I was just trying to find an excuse not to look at our group of friends. They were far too giddy, hooting and hollering, high fiving, all with the lone exception of Cartman who excused himself to go "throw up".

"Congratulations, firecrotch." _Thanks, Craig. Fucking asshole._ Stan's arm coiled around my shoulders, hugging me to his chest as if to help dwindle my meddling embarrassment.

"Yeah, dude. I'm so proud of you," Tweek praised. I felt dirty after hearing that from someone who appeared so innocent and naive. By the way things were going I was surprised when Butters didn't say something like, "Yeah, great job, Stan! Way to stick in 'im!"

God damn it, I was never going to live this one down.

* * *

><p>First sex scene that doesn't have to do with vampires, and first sex scene I've ever put on the internet! Holla!<p> 


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